


Skeinless

by whipperschnapper



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff and Angst, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020, Jmge 2020, M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, Soulmates AU, Underage Drinking, french!Jean Kirchstein, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whipperschnapper/pseuds/whipperschnapper
Summary: Marco can't wait to meet his soulmate and ask them why. Why do they love his arm so much? All his life he's been considered lucky for having a skein--marks across a person's body that indicate your soulmate's favorite pieces of you--but only on his arm, and Marco wants to know why.He also wants to know more about the new kid, Jean, and what it's like growing up in one of the coldest parts of French Canada.Jean wants to go home. He wants to find his mom and ask why she left.Most of all, Jean wants to know how he could feel so much for Marco when he himself is skeinless.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 9
Kudos: 77
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020





	Skeinless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luxxalott](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luxxalott/gifts).



> Thanks for the lovely prompts! Might've had too much fun with this one 😅

PART I: STRING CHEESE

The first time Marco noticed a mark, he was at the kitchen table with an after-school snack consisting of string cheese and a clementine. When he first saw it, the pale, thin line slanting over his wrist, he thought it was a stray bit of cheese and licked the inside of his forearm.

The mark didn’t come off.

He wiped his fingers over it. 

The mark held.

“Mom?” Marco called, and peered over the back of his chair. He held out his arm, wrist to the ceiling. “It won’t come off.”

Miriam Bodt stood at her farm-style sink and glanced over her shoulder, using it to finagle her slipping glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She had freckles just like Marco’s, but with the addition of faint white sprinkled in amongst the flecks of dark brown.

Miriam flicked the soapy water off her fingers and wiped her hands on her apron, stepping closer to better inspect her son’s little arm. She took his wrist and squinted, her bright eyes shrewd.

“I didn’t draw on myself,” Marco quickly said. “Promise.”

Miriam’s lips twitched, and she laughed, snorting once. She always snorted when she laughed. “I know, love.”

“What is it?”

Miriam tilted Marco’s wrist against the light again, watching as the light dancing and flickered in tiny fractals all around Marco’s skin. “You’ve got your first soulmark.”

Marco gasped.

Miriam smiled at him, her hand sliding down to squeeze his knuckles. “You’ve started your skein.”

***

Everyone knew Marco Bodt was lucky enough to skein before middle school. Some people were lucky if they got their first soulmark in high school; in fact, Marco’s own mother had started her master’s program before she’d gotten hers. The world was rather large, after all, and most people had their whole lives to find their match.

Match. Skein sibling. Soulmate. What a wonderful idea, to think there was someone out there who complimented you so wholly the universe tied you together like a gift. 

Marco released a breath as Mr. Smith continued his speech about the Oxford comma at the front of the classroom. By now, Marco’s whole right forearm was a swirl of pale pink with tiny embellishments like lace. It wasn’t unheard of for a person to skein so intricately, but Marco couldn’t deny that he’d never seen a mark so concentrated on a single body part; most people had skeins all over their body, even sometimes in their hair.

Oh, well. It wasn’t like it mattered. The pattern was pretty.

Marco and the rest of the class startled at the classroom door being yanked open, the old hinges groaning as someone breezed in. Mr. Smith paused his explanation of syntax to address them, and capped his marker when he saw the sporty boy with the blue and green backpack and sandy blond hair slink inside.

“Ah, step forward, please.” 

The boy did as Mr. Smith said, his eyes on anything but the thirty some-odd pairs of eyes on him, his knuckles tight on the strap of his backpack.

“We’ve a new student, everyone. Please say hello to Jean—”

“—Jean.” The boy interrupted softly.

“Right. My apologies. This is Jean Kirchstein.”

Marco joined his classmates in a monotone “hello.”

Mr. Smith leaned against the whiteboard, his hands on the marker tray. “Would you like to tell us a bit about yourself, Jean?”

The boy looked like there were about a thousand other things he’d rather do than address the class, hopping in front of a speeding bus being one of them.

“Uhm…” he started, lips bunched to the side of his mouth, fingers drumming his thigh as his eyes swept to the ceiling in thought. “I’m from Canada.”

“Mighty fine weather we’re havin’, eh?” someone at the back of the classroom called, and the whole group snickered. Even Marco couldn’t help smiling.

Jean’s cheeks went pink, but he forced a smile.

“All right, then. Let us continue the lesson. Please take a seat wherever you like, Mr. Kirchstein, I’ll put you on the seating chart later.”

Marco watched as Jean sauntered down the center aisle, finding a free desk on the second to last row.

Jean kept his eyes around his feet mostly, scanning the corners of each desk so he wasn’t forced to look anyone in the eye, when something caught the corner of his attention. He glanced up.

A boy in the row in front of Jean, wearing a black crew-neck, was already skeined. Not only was he skeined, but the pattern was large and covered the better portion of his right arm in pale pink going red at his wrist. Jean’s eyes flicked away before the boy could catch him staring, but he could swear he saw a half-smile curl the boy's cheek from the corner of his eye.

Marco looked down at his desk modestly. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by his skein-- in fact, it was one of his favorite things about himself--but he would hate for his adoration for the curling lines and faint, not-quite-readable text to be mistaken for arrogance.

That, and Marco glanced down because he saw Jean’s eyes and saw they were the brightest amber Marco had ever seen.

***

Jean learned that he hated American schools as much if not more than his school in Quebec. At least in Canada he didn’t have to deal with the eh’s and aboot’s trailing him like lost ducklings down the halls. And the food was definitely better. Almost as if Quebecois wanted their kin to make it to adulthood.

Not to mention how the Americans were obsessed with his accent to a beyond annoying level. Spending most of his childhood on a military base had convinced him it wasn’t that noticeable, but their ears were supersonic for anything out of the ordinary.

The first week was the worst, but each day after that grew a little more bearable. He shared a class with some blond giant from Europe, and the two of them shared knowing looks whenever someone asked them to say something in their “mother tongue.”

Jean sat with the giant—come to find out his name was Reiner—at lunch, and by the end of the second week, was certain they could call each other friends.

And the best part? Reiner was skeinless just like Jean, and wasn’t obsessed with starting his like some of Jean’s new peers.

Jean found himself staring at the dark-haired boy from his English class again, struggling to catch the shimmer of the boy’s skein from three tables away, but it was useless. He sighed and turned back to the battery acid the school called food.

“You look mad,” Reiner stated, and that’s all he did. No offer to comfort, no wondering what was wrong. It was nice.

“I always look mad,” Jean hummed. He picked up his hamburger and tore at it, his stomach lurching at the rubbery texture of the patty. Was this even real meat? “Just looking at the kid with the big skein on his arm.” Jean tilted his head, indicating over his shoulder without actually looking this time. “Seems to like to show it off.”

Reiner’s icy eyes flicked over Jean’s shoulder once, his expression never changing. “That’s Marco Bodt. He’s a good guy.”

“When’d he start the skein?”

Reiner sighed, thinking. “Second grade? He wasn’t ten years old before it started.”

Jean’s stomach sunk deeper. Of course that would be the case. Wasn’t it like fate to favor the pretty ones? They always skeined first and in the most appealing ways. Not like Jean’s dad, whose skein started on his dick of all places.

Jean hoped silently that he would skein differently, if he had to at all. How mortifying for it to be a family trait.

“Does he know his weaver?” Jean wondered, feigning indifference. It wasn’t too hard; those who skeined early were always a hot topic.

Reiner shrugged. “I’ve never cared to ask.”

Jean’s lips twitched down in a frown. “Is he dating anyone?”

Another shrug. “Dunno.”

Jean sighed, and the bell to be excused to class chimed. 

When he stood, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder at Marco Bodt just one more time.

He was laughing at something his bald-headed friend had said. No wait, they weren’t bald, just buzzed. 

Marco had a hand over his mouth, eyes screwed up as he laughed, and his thumb rested parallel with the deepest dimple Jean had ever seen. So deep, he could see it from three tables away.

Jean stared at that dimple, and the lithe fingers of Marco’s right hand as they glided up to tuck a bit of dark hair behind his ear.

Marco gasped for breath, moving his gaze to avoid another laughing fit, when he caught the new kid staring at him and froze.

Their eyes locked across a sea of students, and Jean’s ears flushed a violent red before he whipped around and trudged his way to class.

PART II: RED YARN

It wasn’t that Jean was concerned about being gay. He’d known for a very long time that he much preferred boys, and his father had already had his ass for it. Not the being gay part, no, just for trying to hide it.

Bailey Kirchstein was different from any other military man Jean had ever met. Then again, he’d chosen to apply for residency in Chibougamau solely because he thought the name was funny, never mind that the winds cut like knives and there were times when he couldn’t even take his plane out due to the snow. Bailey loved the base though, and he’d shared that love with Jean before stripping it from Jean the day he announced they were leaving.

Jean tried to hate him for it, but it was no use. They left, and he had little say in the matter.

Jean’s eyes wandered to his father on the car ride from school, taking in his dirty blond hair, his sun-cracked knuckles on the steering wheel. They looked nothing alike, if Jean was honest. Bailey was warm and easy to approach, whereas Jean never got over the awkwardness that came hand-in-hand with puberty, and had a habit of staring at the floor when he was nervous.

No wonder his skein was bare. Jean had probably walked right past his soulmate and missed his chance.

“Papa?” Jean started, his voice cracking awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “Did your skein show up before or after you met mom?”

Bailey paused a moment, his eyebrows scrunching with the question. “What was that?”

Jean sighed. Bailey was always doing this. Every time Jean brought up his mother, Bailey acted like he didn’t hear him. Jean never knew why. Maybe it was because whatever wound was left in place of Jean’s mother hadn’t healed yet. Maybe it was because Jean looked so much like her. Whatever it was, Jean was still in the dark when it came to the true story of when his parents met.

Bailey chuckled. “You’re not worrying about that again, are you? You know how we met, Jeanbo.” He purposely ignored the sour look Jean gave him at the old nickname. “Now, how was school?”

Jean groaned. “Really? You already know it was terrible.”

“Are you still being made fun of?”

Jean slouched as much as he could with the seatbelt securing his hips, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Yes,” he grumbled, staring out the passenger window.

Bailey sighed. “Kids these days…”

“It’s not the kids, papa, you know it’s not.” Jean’s head shook, eyes still on the mess of trees flying past the car. “It’s me.”

Bailey scoffed. “It’s not you.”

“It is!” Jean snapped, and sucked in a breath. “I think…I think they know I’m skeinless. Permanently.”

Bailey seethed. “Don’t talk like that. There are plenty of people who make it just fine in life without a soulmark.”

“Maybe in Quebec they do…” Jean grumbled.

“Jean,” Bailey warned. “It’s barely been a month. Give it some time to adjust.”

Jean sighed and dropped it. The truth of it was that Jean hadn’t a clue how to bring up that he was certain his skeinlessness had something to do with his own parents being soulmates and not making it.

He went straight to his room after leaving his boots on the porch, a habit from Canada he had no intention of dropping. His backpack hit the floor with a dull thud, and Jean collapsed on his bed, staring forlornly at the blue and white Quebecois flag he’d tacked to his ceiling. His ears burned with frustration. 

He wished he could’ve stayed in Quebec, even if he had to leave the base. He wished his father had considered staying in the French provinces. He wished he knew where his mother was, so he could tell her just how much she’d ruined things for the both of them.

And Jean wished, with all that he was, that he wasn’t already crushing on Marco Bodt. He’d never even spoken to him before, and the guy was obviously taken and proud of it. He wished he’d never left home, that he wasn’t skeinless. That he wasn’t spineless.

Jean wished the whole night long, itching his burning ears, rubbing his tired eyes, until he crashed in his bed with his English homework unfinished.

***

Marco caught himself watching for the new kid to walk into Mr. Smith’s fifth period class. He wasn’t sure why, but his eyes still scanned each face in an almost agitated way. 

When Jean did make it to class, seconds before the bell and his cheeks flushed from running across campus, he stood awkwardly at Smith’s desk, waiting as the teacher located his seating chart.

“We’ve made some changes to the seating chart, folks,” Smith announced when he finally found the clipboard. “Jaeger, Arlert; you’re up two rows.”

There was a groan as Eren slumped from his seat and sauntered to the front of the class.

“Braus and Springer, I’m separating the two of you.” Sasha’s lip quivered and she and Connie clutched hands like a couple separated by the war draft rather than a high school seating chart. “Ms. Braus, you’ll be taking Mr. Arlert’s place in the third row.”

Connie swore under his breath as Sasha grabbed her bag and slunk away.

“And Mr. Kirchstein…” Mr. Smith traced his finger down the seating chart before indicating with his hand. “You’ll be between Mr. Bodt and Mr. Springer.”

Marco’s spine straightened and he nudged his backpack with his foot to make room for Jean in the aisle as he passed, eyes on the floor. Marco couldn’t be sure if Jean was so quiet because he had to replace Sasha or because he didn’t want to interrupt class. Marco and Connie exchanged a brief look behind Jean’s back when he leaned over to retrieve his notebook and pen.

Marco’s eyes flicked down to Jean, and Connie shrugged silently before the two of them followed suit and turned back to the front of the class.

It wasn’t so bad for the most part, except for the fact that Jean smelled really good. Marco didn’t even notice for the first few minutes until Jean was called to the front of the class to demonstrate English conjunctions at the white board, and the air around Marco swirled with some earthy smell like cologne and pine. And the smell only grew all the more noticeable when Jean resumed his seat without a word.

Marco decided to introduce himself when Smith excused them to get a head start on their writing assignment for the night, turning to Jean and clearing his throat.

“Your name is Jean?”

Jean flinched being addressed so suddenly, and his eyes flicked up before he capped his pen, lips curled over his teeth as he nodded. He leaned back in his seat.

“I’m Marco.” He held out his hand for Jean to take, unbothered as Jean’s eyes stared a little too long at the almost-red tattoo curling at Marco’s wrist just under the cuff of his sweater. “Where are you from?”

Jean’s hand was cold and dry. “Quebec,” he said quietly.

He even said it differently. He said "Ka-bec" instead of the "Kwa-bec" like Marco and Connie had always heard.

"That’s French, right?" Connie interjected. 

Jean nodded. "Oui," he grinned.

Marco chuckled. "Which part of Quebec?" He was certain to pronounce it correctly this time.

Jean’s face fell as if he’d dreaded this question. "Uhm, it's an air force base." He scratched his thumbnail, raising a bit of his cuticle. "Called Chibougamau."

Connie snickered, and even Marco’s eyebrows pressed together in a grin. "Come again?"

Jean cleared his throat, but heat rose to his cheeks anyway, even up to the tips of his ears. His voice was quiet and strained when he repeated, "Chibougamau."

Connie laughed against his knuckles, but Marco tried for a more candid approach. Certainly Jean was aware what an odd name it was.

"That’s a fun name. Much more interesting than Jinae."

Connie recovered and leaned over his desk again. "What brought you here, anyway?"

Jean looked between the two of them, hating that he had to look at both and neither sitting between them. "My dad…" he shrugged. "He retired and wanted to go somewhere new. We both like the woods so he chose Jinae."

He chose Jinae, Marco heard. As if Jean had little say in it.

"Hope we've got something good to offer," he said by way of apology. 

Jean shrugged, squirming a little. "It’s pretty here," he muttered, feigning optimism. "I've never lived this far from the city."

"Oh, dude, you should see it in the dead of winter," Connie gushed. "We get these awesome snowstorms that block the road. You can't even drive your car it's so thick. Last year people were coming to school on snowmobiles."

"The local hockey team isn't too bad, either," Marco added. "They took third in the playoffs last year."

Jean nodded along, expression interested if a little sad. Marco and Connie could both guess why; it wasn't as if a small town like Jinae could hold a candle to home.

"Do you...do you have a place to sit at lunch?" Marco started. "We don't get school food, obviously, but a couple of us were putting a pool together for some pizzas if you wanted to join us?"

Jean stared at him. So did Connie.

"Uhm." Jean didn't even have the excuse of Reiner today; he'd been absent from class this morning. "I…" He swallowed. "S-sure. I don't have more than ten dollars, though."

Marco snorted. "Don't worry. You won't need to add more than five." He brushed some hair from his eyes, his sleeve sliding down and exposing his wrist again, the skein weaving across his skin in watered-down crimson.

Jean tore his eyes away before he could make an ass of himself, swallowing and looking at his English notes for comfort. 

***

Eating with Marco's and Connie's group of friends, Jean learned the name and face of the person who'd been the most merciless in the French taunting. 

Eren Jaeger.

It shouldn't have been so much of a surprise. Jean never got along with boys that short and with hair that long. There was something about them, probably the need to compensate, that grated Jean's nerves raw.

But Eren, it seemed, was kind of a jerk to everyone. 

"Stick your greasy fingers in my face one more time and see what happens," the girl with the pale, thin skin and dark auburn hair hissed from across the table at Eren, seething as he gleefully sucked cheese and marinara from his thumb. Sasha was her name.

"Really, dude, are you five?" Connie groaned.

"He didn't get enough oxygen in the womb," the small blond with blue eyes too big for his face sighed. "It’s a tragedy, really."

"No," Sasha argued. "The tragedy will be what I do with the body."

Eren laughed again. "Oh, come on! I thought you liked pizza!"

"Yeah! In my mouth! Not on my sweater!"

Jean jolted as someone leaned close to his ear, and a strand of Marco’s curly hair caressed his cheek.

"She's gonna bite him. Just watch."

Jean could barely hear him past the roaring in his ears. He swallowed and leaned away some to clear his head, but it did little to help his thumping heart.

"My bet is she gets the thumb,” Marco continued. “They do this pretty regularly.”

Jean leaned away both to catch his breath, and so he could get a better look at Marco without their noses touching. “And they’re still friends?”

Marco shrugged, his cheeks pink with the thought he’d made Jean uncomfortable leaning in so close. “Well...Eren’s the only one with a basement big enough for parties, and a dad who’s away on business enough not to notice.”

Jean’s eyebrows scrunched, and his eyes slid in Eren’s direction. So people didn’t like him at all? Bummer.

“But he’s not so bad once you get to know him!” Marco smiled, and that crater-like dimple cut right through his cheek and Jean’s chest. “His personality is just a little...different.”

You mean difficult, Jean thought, but said nothing. He didn’t want Marco to know he was just as bad, if not worse.

“So, what’s Chibougamau like?” Marco asked.

Jean jolted and stared for a long moment before he caught himself and shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone who remembered the name so easily. Sorry.”

Marco blasted Jean with that earth-shattering, heart-crushing smile again. “There’s no need to apologize. Everyone deserves to have their home remembered.”

Jean blinked at him again, and had to look somewhere else before his brain went to total mush. “I, uh.” He blinked again, clearing his throat once to set his mind straight. “It’s, uh...cold?”

Marco laughed, though not like he was laughing at Jean. 

“And we use snowmobiles every year. There’s a big race my dad likes to participate in, the whole city comes out for it?”

“Really?” Marco’s eyes were alight with the thought: all those people, out in the street in support of their neighbors. “Have you ever placed?”

Jean shrugged. “It isn’t really...you don’t ride to win, just to have fun.” He remembered when he was fourteen, when his dad had finally caved and allowed him to ride on his own for the very first time, and he’d managed to crash into the first tree off the rampart. Jean mourned his skidoo, and what his father would do to him when he found out, but Bailey had only laughed and patted the seat behind him. “I knew that would happen,” he said, and they rode together for the last time.

Marco beamed again. “Wow. That sounds like a blast.”

Jean nodded. “It’s kinda the only thing that goes on up there, so we gotta do it well.” He chuckled, nervous. “S-so you’ve started your skein already,” he hedged. “That’s pretty cool.”

Marco’s eyes followed Jean’s to his right forearm, where white lace-like scars swirled from his elbow and melted to a bright blood red near his wrist, where the pattern disappeared under the two bracelets and watch he always wore. He smiled, cheeks warm, and held his arm between them, rotating his wrist for Jean to see.

“Oh, yeah,” Marco chuckled. “Whoever they are, they really have an eye for detail.”

“Yeah?”

Marco nodded again. “And they like my arm.” He shook his head. “Haven’t got a mark anywhere else but here.”

Jean swallowed, his chest burning with jealousy. He’d expected as much the first day he saw Marco with his skein on display, though he’d figured that that jealousy would be directed at Marco, not for him. Whoever Marco’s soulmate was, Jean was practically green wanting what destiny had already reserved for them. It wasn’t fair.

“Has your skein started?” Marco wondered, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin. “I won’t tell anybody.”

Jean was stricken with the smell of him. Marco didn’t wear cologne, but whatever mixture of shampoo and laundry detergent and sweat made his head spin, and he leaned back without thinking.

Marco’s face fell instantly. “Oh, sorry, I know it’s kinda personal.”

Jean’s head shook, and the smell of Marco slowly faded. “It’s not that,” he mumbled. “I just–”

“Bonfire!” someone shouted, and Jean and Marco both leapt in their seats. Both turned to stare at Connie with marinara and bread in his gaping mouth, arms spread like he was prepping to take flight.

A few others at the table whooped with him, and Connie stepped down from his perch on the table, passing out small green fliers with a photocopied address and hand-drawn map on the back. He even handed one to Jean, much to his surprise.

“Ladies, theydies, and gents, the Jaeger household quadri-annual Bonzapalooza is now–” Connie pinched his thumbs and indexes together like a conductor “--officially in full swing! Don’t shirk your homework lest you’re grounded from attending the biggest, the baddest, the alcohol-and-pizza-eating-est party of your high school careers!”

Marco leaned away from Jean, attention diverted, and Jean took the opportunity to get his breath back.

“Attendance is by invite only, so invite everyone you know,” Connie snickered, and dodged a swat from Eren as he took Connie’s place at the front of the table.

Eren appraised the table with a crude eye, his gaze lingering on Jean a moment longer than the others, before he took a breath. 

“If someone breaks a window this time, I’ll peck out your liver.”

With that, he took a seat, but not before his gaze fell on Jean one more time, his bright grey eyes piercing in a way that told Jean he knew.

Jean bristled.

“You think you’re gonna go?” Marco wondered at his side. “The drinking usually gets out of hand, but the bonfire is always nice.”

Jean looked at him, and took notice of the way Marco’s fingers tugged his sleeve farther down his wrist. Gently, but persistent, as if he were trying to be covert about it.

Jean said nothing on what he saw. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I’ve never been to a party like that before. Don’t want to be stranded, you know?”

“Why, Jean,” Marco gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock offense, the cuff of his sleeve sliding down just enough that Jean could spy the red from the corner of his eye. “I would never.”

Jean’s lips twitched, and he scoffed. 

Marco leaned in again, the smell of his hair invading Jean’s senses like wine soaking a white cotton shirt. “And besides,” Marco growled, “we could always hijack a snowmobile to get us home.”

***

Jean didn’t know what his plan was as far as the party was concerned. Not that he thought Eren would be all that much of a problem, or that he thought his father would get in the way of his going. Having parents who conceived in a public washroom did have some perks, Bailey lacking ground when it came to Jean’s sexual activity being one of them. So long as he stayed away from one-night stands and gloryholes, he was already doing better than his parents.

No...the issue at hand was that Marco was going to be there. And Marco was off-limits. And Marco was so proud that he was off-limits and Jean wasn’t sure he could stomach being in the same room, around the same fire, when they were drinking and dancing and no doubt talking like they had been at lunch.

Jean swayed where he stood. If he focused enough, he could still smell Marco from that last time he leaned in and talked about snowmobiles. He could feel the soft brush of his breath against his cheek, and smell his wavy hair as it shifted and slipped from Marco’s shoulder. God, what Jean would do to see that dark hair pulled back.

What would it be like to have Marco’s arms around him as the two sped across the terrain, his chin on Jean’s shoulder? How much would Jean have to breathe through his mouth or risk crashing the skidoo having him so close?

He had to blink, hard, to regather his footing. His hand shot out, and he gripped hard to the bus stop to keep upright. His head swirled, insides roiling.

Don’t think of that, he told himself. He’s off-limits.

Down the street, behind a sea of cars, he could see the bus coming. The plastic grocery sacks hanging from his frigid fingers ached, begging to be set down. His eyes fell to the frozen concrete underfoot, the bitter cold radiating up through the soles of his feet and into his legs. He couldn’t wait to go home and sit in a hot bath for the next four years.

Behind him, in the parking lot with the local grocer and a few fast food joints cramped inside, a car honked, and Jean thought nothing of it.

The bus was almost there, so close and taking its dear, sweet time.

The car honked again, and this time, a voice followed.

“Jean! Turn around!”

He glanced up hearing his name, and turned over his shoulder, spotting a familiar arm waving from the driver’s side window of the single car in line at some place called Sina’s. 

Marco broke out into a grin before speaking something to the intercom, throwing his car in park, before climbing out and trotting over. Jean’s insides burned with something like jealousy watching his long legs scale the snowbank between the parking lot and the sidewalk in two lopes.

Marco was all smiles coming up to him, and Jean realized then that he was at least six inches shorter than Marco.

“I thought it was you! What are you doing out here?” Marco’s breath was a cloud of white moving past his lips. His beautiful, crooked, off-limits lips.

Jean’s mouth opened to answer before shutting. He gestured to his grocery bags instead.

Marco followed his gaze. “Oh. Do you need a ride home?”

Again, Jean’s mouth opened to answer, but the bus he was supposed to be loading hissed past without even trying to brake. He watched as it fell farther and farther away.

Marco didn’t laugh. In fact, he shivered under his coat.

“I won’t be very long, I’m just picking up an order for my mom.” Marco threw his thumb over his shoulder. “Her car’s warmer than a public bus, anyway.”

Jean glanced at him, debating. It wasn’t necessarily that he thought Marco would trick him, or find something to make fun of him for at school the next day, but Jean needed to keep his distance. It wouldn’t be right for Jean to take Marco when he was already reserved for someone else. He couldn’t live knowing that, somewhere, there was one more skeinless kid in the world because of him.

He followed Marco down the snowbank, using his footprints to keep his own balance in the thick drift.

“Do you want anything? I haven’t ordered yet.” Marco slid into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt into place. “My treat.”

Jean sank into the passenger seat, feeling like an interloper on the clean leather, his duck shoes dirtying the floor mats. “No thank you. I have dinner waiting at home.”

“Do you not like Chinese?”

Jean glanced at him and shrugged. “It’s okay. I just had plans already.”

“Oh, right, right.” Marco looked like he was going to ask more, when the attendant behind the intercom buzzed in. 

“Marco, are you going to order or what? My shift ends in five minutes.”

His jaw snapped shut and his eyes widened, and Marco whipped around to the driver’s side window. “Sorry, Mina! Just get me the regular with a Coke!” He was sure to turn to Jean one more time. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

Jean shook his head, lips pursed. “Mm-mm.”

Marco grinned. “Also, can I get some extra crab rangoons?”

The girl over the intercom sighed. “That’ll be nineteen-seventeen, front door. I’m not spilling sweet n’ sour on my apron again for you.”

Marco chuckled and pulled forward.

He thrust out a credit card for the girl with the braids at the window. “Darling,” Marco crooned.

The girl–her name tag said Mina–rolled her eyes and leaned out for the card, and Jean caught sight of the elaborate skein curling up the hollow of her throat and around either of her big ears poking from her hair. Her fingers were a bloody red with the same pattern.

“Come inside, loverboy,” Mina grumbled. “Grab your order yourself.”

Marco laughed again, turning to Jean as he pocketed his card. “She’s always like this. It’s a game we play.”

Jean nodded like he understood, until it dawned on him: Mina and Marco were soulmates.

They had to be, with a rapport like that. No one talked like that unless they were flirting. 

Jean’s cheeks flushed red.

“I’ll be right back,” Marco promised, putting the car in park before hopping out and throwing the front door of Sina’s open. Even his beautiful laughter could be heard from inside.

Jean sank in his seat, throwing his head back against the headrest. Of course this was the way he found out. Of course Jean would crush on the first skeined guy he saw and set himself up for heartbreak when he found out Marco had just about the cutest meet-cute story out there. 

Of course Marco had to be nice.

Of course Jean had to be skeinless.

He opened his eyes and scowled forward as a girl walked in front of Marco’s car, her apron and visor indicating she was about to start her shift. 

The girl blinked, clutching her apron with a startled, before offering a shy smile and a wave for Jean.

His lips quirked, and Jean waved back.

Marco’s laughter could be heard again as he backed into the door of Sina’s, lifting his greasy paper bags and holding his foot against the jamb to let the small girl past. “Oh, hi, Chirsta!”

“Hi, Marco. Is your friend coming to the bonfire?”

He looked over at Jean with a smile before turning back to her. “I think so.”

She nodded again, waving to them both before scurrying inside.

Marco put his bags in the backseat before retaking his spot in the driver’s seat. “So, which direction to your house?” He panted.

Jean pointed west. “Past the high school, up Trost Lane.”

Marco nodded and pulled onto the street.

“Does Mina go to our school?”

Marco blinked. “Hm? Oh, no.” He laughed. “She’s in college. She commutes up to Garrison University.”

An older woman. Of course Marco would be so lucky.

Any conversation Jean might have wanted was gone now, crushed under the weight of Marco’s stinky Chinese food, drowned in the blast of the car heaters and the smell of prawn balls and fried rice.

Marco was an easy talker because of course he was. He was perfect, and everything came easy to him. “So, you mentioned your dad moved here because of his job. What does he do?”

Jean swallowed and clutched his groceries to his chest, doing his best to avoid eye contact without being outright rude. “He was in the royal air force, but he’s retired now. He wanted to come here for the snow, I guess.” Jean watched the street outside his window, frowning at the black slush spraying under the tires. “If this evening counts as snow,” he grumbled.

Marco didn’t hear the last part. “And your mom?”

Jean opened his mouth to say it, but the words caught at the tip of his tongue like pirates walking the plank. He knew he would have to say it sooner or later, but the prospect of Marco knowing that he was skeinless without Jean even having the opportunity to man up and say outright...it scared Jean.

He swallowed. “Sh-she’s dead.”

Not an outright lie, and close enough to the truth. She was dead to him, at least.

Marco didn’t take it weird the way people always did with the lie. His eyebrows crinkled and his gaze flicked between Jean and the road. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Marco said, sincere.

Jean swallowed again. “Thank you. It was a long time ago, so don’t worry.”

Marco nodded. “My dad died.”

Jean made a noise in his throat somewhere between a gag and a yelp, but it was thankfully lost under the hum of the tires. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

Marco laughed, but it didn’t sound like a laugh. Not entirely. “Yeah. It happened a long time ago, too.”

Jean didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

Marco cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be weird, but...you know if you ever need to talk about it, you can come to me. I know it’s hard talking to people who don’t understand. Parents included.”

Jean stared into his grocery sack, at the plastic bags of tomatoes, the sliced bread. He didn’t know what he was looking for in those bags, but he was intent on finding it.

“Likewise.”

There was a brief pause, but not awkward. Almost like the two needed the silence to lay the topic to rest with care, letting it soak into them.

“So, what kind of stuff do you like? Besides snowmobiling.”

Jean searched for something to say that wasn’t completely boring or totally cringe. It was a short list. “Uhm...I like...video games?”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Jean winced. “Bioshock?”

Marco turned to him with wide eyes and mouth open. He pointed at his chest. “Dude, that’s my favorite.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Which one?”

Marco shrugged. “I like all of them, honestly, but the second is my favorite. What about you?”

“The first.” Jean’s head tilted consideringly. “Would you ever want to have a game night?”

That smile that made Jean’s chest hurt broke out across Marco’s face, dialled up to mach. “Absolutely. Which console do you main?”

Jean shrugged. “Xbox.”

Marco's shoulders slumped. “Boo. I’m on PlayStation.”

Jean couldn’t help the face he made. “Oh, gross.”

Marco sputtered. “What? It’s a good console!”

“I never pegged you for a weeb,” Jean snorted.

“I’d only be a weeb if I played Animal Crossing, too.”

“Do you play Animal Crossing?”

Marco was quiet for a long moment, his shoulders hiking up to his neck. His gaze didn’t meet Jean’s when he said. “...yes.”

Jean laughed. He hadn’t laughed so much since moving here.

“Laugh all you want, but my island is gorgeous, Mr. Kirchstein.”

Jean wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. I’m sure it is.

Marco snorted. “You’re welcome to visit any time you like so long as you aren’t mean.”

“I never said I played.”

Marco’s cheeks heated. “W-well, I recommend it. It’s very relaxing.”

Somehow, they managed to keep a steady conversation going the whole ride up the winding path to Jean’s home, the words flowing between them so easily Jean didn’t even notice until Marco pressed the brakes and switched gears to park. In an instant, the facade shattered, and Jean blinked out the foggy window at the narrow, two-story house with the yellow slats and cheap, plastic picket fence.

“The windows look dark,” Marco said, his eyes following Jean’s. “Is anybody home?”

Jean glanced back at him, briefly, before gathering his groceries and awkwardly unclicking his seatbelt. He worried what Marco thought of the house, and of Jean after seeing it. It certainly wasn’t very tidy-looking, and Bailey Kirchstein wasn’t known for his homemaking.

“My dad likes to stay out late,” Jean murmured. Again he worried, this time that he’d spoken too quickly and too quietly, that his accent garbled his words. He cleared his throat. “I’m always the first one home.”

Marco’s eyes moved to him, then down to the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly five in the evening, and the light of day was quickly waning.

“Well, you ought to come have dinner sometime!” Marco tried for a cheery disposition, but Jean frowned.

“I don’t mind being alone.”

Marco swallowed and chuckled, tugging the collar of his sweater. “No, I--I don’t mean it to be rude. I’m sorry.” His eyes wandered from place to place around the cab before finally landing and sticking on Jean. “I just know what it can be like being in a house all by yourself in winter. It gets boring.”

Jean stared at him before remembering to blink. “Uh...sure, then. Maybe when I come over to kick your ass at Bioshock.”

Marco’s mouth gaped in offense, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smirk. He scoffed. “Cussing…” he shook his head, eyes trained out the front windshield before flicking back to Jean. “In my good, Christian hatchback.”

Jean snickered, awed that he felt comfortable enough to talk to Marco like that after only having spoken to him three times now. He tugged the handle on his door, and pushed it open with his elbow, sliding out and only just managing to keep his footing on the icy carport. “Thank you for the ride.”

Marco beamed, and Jean could be kept warm the whole winter long from the sunshine in that smile. He saw then that Marco had dimples on both cheeks, the one on his left cheek just barely deeper than the right. “Thank you for the company,” Marco replied.

“I’ll see you in English.”

Marco waved over the steering wheel. “Will you be eating lunch with us tomorrow?”

Jean adjusted the grocery bags with his knee. “Yes.” He paused a moment before another grin twitched the corner of his lips. “Would you mind holding on for a bit?”

At Marco’s generous nod, Jean made a beeline for the house as fast as he dared; he would have to remember to put out some ice melt later. He fumbled with his keys and elbowed his way inside the cold, dark house, dumping the contents of his arms on the kitchen table before racing upstairs to his room. He grabbed his Switch and waited anxiously for it to boot to life, grabbing a pen and paper to scribble the code down. Jean took the stairs two at a time, controlling himself enough to not make an ass of himself barreling back out into the cold.

Jean’s breath came out in white puffs as he waded back to Marco’s car, and the warm air was a brief but welcome relief against the bitter cold when he tugged the door open again.

He held out the green sticky note for Marco. “Here.” At Marco’s questioning gaze, Jean scratched his neck and looked down. He felt the pen scrape on his neck, drawing an accidental line down from his ear. “C-come visit my island sometime.”

Marco stared at the code, and watching realization come upon him was like watching the sun rise. His eyebrows hiked up, his dimples deepened around a bewildered smile, and Marco slapped his palm against the steering wheel. 

Marco pointed at his chest with the same hand holding the code—Jean’s code—and Jean tried not to notice how the action brought his note close to Marco’s heart.

“And you called me a weeb?”

Jean couldn’t help laughing a little, cheeks flushing from the cold--or that’s what he told himself. “Oh, y’know...it takes one to know one.”

Marco’s laugh was cut short and muffled when Jean closed the passenger’s-side door and waved through the window. The tires crunched over the snow, and the car horn echoed faintly through the surrounding trees as Marco honked and made his way back down the drive.

Jean watched the red reflection of the brake lights disappear and trembled from the cold. Or that’s what he told himself.

Heading inside, he made his way to the garage and found the blue plastic bag of ice-melt. After chucking a few pitchers-full across the sidewalk and the carport, he went back inside, cranked up the heat, and started to cook dinner for himself.

***

Jean had gotten the red wool hat from his mother for his ninth birthday, back when he still believed his parents would get back together. It was too large when he got it, but that didn’t stop him wearing it. As soon as the temperature dropped just above freezing, he would wear the beanie and never take it off until spring.

But with each wash, the hat grew just a bit tighter. With each winter, the crimson yarn faded and frayed, just like Jean’s hopes.

That didn’t stop him wearing it. 

Maybe it was because he was too lazy to look for something new. Maybe it was because the hat was old and he no longer cared about ruining it. Maybe it was that, sometimes, if Jean smelled it at just the right place the moment he pulled from the dryer, he could almost remember how his mom smelled when she gave it to him.

He stared at the old picture of him and his mother. They’d gone to Niagara Falls (not exactly a fun vacation, if he was honest) and Jean had worn his red wool hat the whole time.

She’d squatted down beside him, one hand on his bicep, the other around his shoulder. Jean could still remember the way she’d tugged his sleeve when she briefly lost her balance and nearly fell over on the wet concrete. He could still remember how her perfume smelled mixed with the scent of the churning falls.

There they were, frozen in time along with bits and pieces of other strangers. The shoulder and backside of a man in a black leather jacket and blue jeans facing the falls. To the right, a dark ponytail fastened by a blue velvet scrunchie with a white charm. A hand with a green and yellow watch pointing at the rapids below.

Jean had looked at the picture so many times it was branded at the back of his mind. He could see every detail when he closed his eyes.

It would be better if he just tossed it, but it was too late for that now. Even if he shredded the picture and burned the pieces, the image would remain there in some corner of his mind. Always.

PART III: STRAW

Marco hadn’t skeined anywhere on his body since the soulmark on his right forearm started, so when he woke up to a new pattern curling between the freckles under his cheekbones, he accidentally nicked his chin, his dropped razor clattering in the sink. 

He touched the fine, white lines with trembling fingers and had to wash his face twice to be certain they weren’t just dried spit from drooling in his sleep. But the marks stayed, and Marco couldn’t stop touching them all morning long.

His mother had taken the car for work early that morning, so it wasn’t until Armin showed up in his squealy old sedan that another person saw.

“Hey, Marco, did you–” Armin’s voice cut off with a gasp, and he gaped at Marco from across the center console. “When did that happen?”

Marco straightened, and his hand flew to the new marks on instinct. “I–are they that noticeable?”

Armin’s wide blue eyes widened more, and he nodded. “When did they happen?”

Marco’s head shook, and he shrugged. “They were there when I woke up this morning. At least, I think they were. I didn’t notice them until I got out of the shower.”

Armin still stared, his poor car squeaked. “Can I touch them?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Marco leaned forward, eyes to the ceiling at Armin’s chilly fingertips grazed his skin, feather-light. “What do you think they’re for?”

Armin pulled back, still staring, but his eyes were back to a semi-normal size. “Mm, if I had to guess, I would say either your eyes or your dimples.”

He would say that. Armin’s own skein had started in a delicate starburst around the faint dimple on his chin.

Marco shook his head, fingers gliding over his skin as Armin backed out of the driveway and they made their way to school.

***

“Who were you hanging out with yesterday?” Connie demanded as he and Marco sat in Smith’s English class as more students slowly filed in. “Dude, narrow down your list!”

Marco shrugged, head shaking. He loved Connie, but man, could he be overbearing. “I was running errands all day after class. There’s no way I can remember everyone.”

“Well, start from the top. Where did you go first?” 

Marco sighed, but his eyes still rolled to the ceiling as he thought. “Bank. Deposited a check for my mom.”

“Were there any new tellers?”

Marco gave an exasperated look and shrugged. “They were behind a window.”

Connie made a face. “Learn to pay attention next time. Next.”

“Next was…” Marco’s fingers snapped. “Post office. That place was packed.”

“Did anyone compliment your face?”

“If they did, it wasn’t to my face.”

Connie sighed. “God. Do you even care who they are?”

Marco scowled, the marks all the more apparent against his flushing cheeks. “Of course I do! I just don’t see the point of flipping the whole town upside down just to find them if we’re meant to be anyways.”

Connie snorted. “Next.”

Marco sighed again, struggling to think as the classroom grew louder with more students coming in. “Next was…oh!”

The bell rang before he could finish. He and Connie were so wrapped in their conversation that they failed to notice Jean was not seated between them, as was the new normal.

Mr. Smith started his lecture, and Marco’s voice dropped in volume. He leaned over their desks so Connie could hear. “I went to Sina’s and Jean was there. I gave him a ride home.”

Connie made a face. “Jean…” His eyes went unfocused. “Why the hell was Jean there?”

Marco’s head shook, and he cradled his forehead in his palm. Could Jean be his soulmate?

The corners of Marco’s lips twitched just thinking of it. He did like Jean, and tried his best to make him feel included. And god did he smell good. Marco’s nose still tingled with the mix of that pine and earth cologne and the grease from his order of fried rice and Mongolian chicken. He’d never admit it to anyone, but his mouth was watering the whole way home from the smell.

“Ooh,” Connie crooned quietly. “I think someone’s got it bad.”

Marco flushed all the way to his ears. He tried to conceal his smile behind folded fingers, but it was no use. His eyes wandered before settling on the empty desk between them.

He blinked and glanced up at Connie. Had they just been talking about Jean–and Marco fantasizing about him–without even noticing he wasn’t there? “I hope he’s okay.”

Connie rolled his eyes. “You’ll see him soon enough, I’m sure. He was probably up late bidding adieu to all the French babes he’s gotta leave behind.”

Or playing Animal Crossing, Marco thought. He’d stuck that green sticky-note to the base of his bedside lamp and couldn’t chalk up the nerve to do more than stare at it. Would it seem eager or desperate if he travelled there so soon? Would Jean be awake, waiting for him?

In the end, Marco couldn’t bring himself to do it. If Jean asked, he could take the coward’s way out and say he was swamped with homework.

Still...Marco’s eyes wandered to Jean’s desk throughout the lesson, wondering where he could be, and where Marco would spy his soulmark first.

***

The real reason for Jean’s tardiness was his father oversleeping and his own alarm failing to wake Jean up. The house was warm, but not as warm–nor as cozy–as Jean’s bed. He cursed under his breath waking up, stretching, only to glance at his phone mid-yawn and realize he’d already missed his first two classes.

Jean cursed again.

Throwing off the covers, he scrambled to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. All the while, he called to his father to wake up. Jean hoped he could be loud enough to wake Bailey from across the hall, but each time Jean managed to peek out his door while dressing, the door was still closed and the light inside off.

His hair was hopeless, and Jean grumbled profanities to himself as he grabbed the worn, red beanie from his closet and situated it on his head.

“Bailey Louis Kirchstein,” Jean declared as he brushed into his father’s bedroom. “I need a ride to school. Would you be so kind as to provide it?”

The lump of blankets at the center of Bailey’s bed did not move, but Jean was too frustrated to be patient. He flicked on the light and tugged the edge of the comforter at the foot of the bed.

Bailey groaned, holding fast to his slumber. “Please, Clemencé, you know it’s my day off.”

Jean dropped the covers like they had burned him, fingers clenching into hard fists.

“I’m taking your car,” Jean snarled, and left the room. Though really, it felt more like he was fleeing.

It didn’t help that the car took so damn long to heat up and the windows to defrost. Jean sat for five agonizing minutes until the windshield was clear enough to see through. The whole time, his eyes flicked to the garage door, dreading that his father might bustle out any moment to address what he’d just done and make it weirder by apologizing.

Jean already knew he looked like his mother, but did he really sound like her enough for his own father to get mixed up?

He told himself it was because Bailey was tired, and tired people do weird things. 

Jean couldn’t convince himself, so he tried to forget it instead.

The period was more than half over by the time Jean slunk into the English room with a tardy slip and a scornful look from Mr. Smith. Jean didn’t even look at Marco or Connie as he slid into his seat, the mortification too great.

He hyperfocused on his notes for the rest of the period, too busy scrambling to catch up with his peers to notice the way Marco’s eyes drank in his profile and committed it to memory. 

Marco didn’t mean to stare, but it was like he was seeing Jean in a whole new light.

His face just looked...different. Still the same--if a little paler and more ragged than the last time they spoke--but different. Marco noticed the length of his lashes, the way his hair poked out from under his beanie in untidy spikes and waves. Marco had to look away to spare his dignity before Jean caught on, but the impression of him was still there, seared into his memory each time Marco blinked.

Marco caught himself leaning into the smell of Jean’s pine cologne more than once before the bell finally rang, and whatever spell he was under was broken.

Jean still studied his notebook as the three of them walked to the cafeteria. So intent was his gaze that Marco had to nudge his shoulder with his own before they made it to the stairwell or else risk Jean tumbling right down.

“Hm? Oh, thank you.” Jean muttered to himself in French, his steps slow.

Marco and Connie both watched his back, and exchanged a look behind him.

Connie’s eyebrows lifted, and he smirked before holding a fist to his lips. His tongue stretched against his cheek.

Marco’s eyes widened, and he punched Connie in the arm, much to Connie’s apparent delight.

“Did you take notes through class?” Jean asked with a sigh as they found their usual table. “Could I copy them?”

Marco’s gaze shifted. “Uhm…” truth be told he had been taking notes–until Jean walked in. After that, the only thing he was able to write out was Jean’s name on the mental whiteboard of his brain.

“Of course he did!” Connie chimed in with a wide smile. “Marco’s the best note-taker in the senior class.”

Even if it had been true, it certainly wasn’t today.

Jean’s gaze turned back to Marco. “Would you let me look them over?”

Marco’s tongue swelled. He was aware he was making some sort of noise in his throat, but it wasn’t words, and it wasn’t audible to anyone but himself. “I-I–well–”

“Marco’s particular about his notes,” Connie conceded, nodding sagely. “Asking to copy won’t get you anywhere.”

The corner of Jean’s mouth twitched, but he apologized and went back to poring over what he’d written, as if he could find the missing notes in the empty spaces on his page.

Marco took the opportunity to glare down at Connie. “What are you doing?” He hissed through his teeth. “I didn’t take notes today!”

Connie grinned up at him, his eyes rolling as if it were blatantly obvious to everyone but Marco. “Copy my notes, numbnuts.”

Marco’s cheeks went pink. “No.”

Connie’s grin deepened.

“Hey, Jean,” he started, turning back to face him. “Marco won’t let you copy his notes, but he’s more than happy to tutor you, if you’re up for it.”

Jean’s eyes flicked up to Connie, then to Marco. After a second, his chin lifted and he set down his pen. “Really?”

Marco swallowed, but nodded after a kick to the shin from Connie straightened his posture. “I...yeah! My note-taking style is a little hard to read without some explanation.” He hedged, but couldn’t fight the way his heart pounded at the idea of him and Jean in close quarters again. “Do you...we could go right to my house after school, if you want?”

Jean made a face. “I took my dad’s car today. I need to drop it off as soon as I can.”

“Grand-theft auto.” Connie nodded approvingly. “Nice. Sex–OW!” He jolted where Marco kicked his shin, hissing and rubbing his leg.

Marco gave him a pointed look that said Be nice.

“You’ll have to forgive Connie,” Marco sighed and turned back to Jean. “He was dropped at birth.”

Jean stared at him, then chuckled and shook his head. 

It wasn’t until after the lunch period had ended and Connie had given Marco his English notes to copy during his next class that Marco remembered he was wearing his steel-toed boots. His stomach curdled with guilt instantly.

That, and Marco noticed Jean hadn’t said a word about his new skein.

***

Jean thought of Marco’s new soulmark all through Phys. Ed. When his group was assigned push-ups, he thought of the way a stray sunbeam had caught the pale, swirling lines and almost glittered. While running a mile on the indoor track, he thought of the perfect way each curlicue circled one of the many freckles on Marco’s cheeks, and how his face was asymmetrical but still beautiful with them. He was in the middle of an aching set of mountain-climbers when Jean’s fingertips burned with the desire to touch the new skin.

It did not help his mood to think of.

Already he was preoccupied with thoughts of his long-gone mother and disappointment of a father. He didn’t need to be thinking of Marco and how painfully untouchable he was.

He comforted himself with the thought that if he was aching to be near Marco this bad, then the need must be ten-fold for Mina.

It wasn’t a very comforting thought.

He drove home the minute the bell rang. The plan was that he’d drive home, and Marco would pick him up in an hour. Jean took the opportunity to shower, his skin aching under the painful heat of the water, his hair dripping in his eyes.

He didn’t put much effort into his appearance getting dressed. What was the point? It wasn’t like Marco would expect more of him, or that Jean should expect more of himself.

He was skeinless, and Marco wasn’t. As much as Jean hated it, that lovely skein would continue to grow the rest of Marco’s life, and there would never be room for Jean in its design.

His hair was dry and wild when a car horn sounded outside, and Jean stomped down the steps, his mood thoroughly in the gutter. He called to his father that he was going out, that he would be back later, and did not wait for a response.

Marco, frustratingly enough, was handsome as ever, and he hit Jean with the full force of his smile the moment he slipped inside the car.

“You look chipper,” he chuckled, and bit his lip at the withering look Jean pinned him with.

“I’d like to say something to you,” Jean said with sweet venom in his voice. “But I won’t because this is a good, Christian hatchback.”

Marco laughed again, cheeks warm with the dashed hope that Jean was going to say something about the new addition to his skein, and pointed his car down Trost Lane.

Jean sighed. “Sorry.” His head shook, hands in his lap. “Today was kind of a shitshow.”

Marco took in Jean’s clothes. He looked like he was dressed for bed, really, in black sweatpants and a hoodie that drowned his thin frame under a poly-cotton blend and a hockey logo. He looked so tired, Marco wanted to offer him a bed to sleep in.

Marco’s cheeks heated when that bed turned into his own, and he was suddenly imagining the two of them huddled under the covers.

He cleared his throat. “Have you eaten dinner?”

Jean was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m not very hungry. Don’t worry about it.”

Marco took that and heard “I’m not in the mood to be an imposition.” 

He smiled. “That’s okay. I’m going to stop for something on the way there, if you change your mind.”

In the end, Jean did. He offered a ten-dollar bill for his share, and waved at Marco to keep the change. “Call it cab fare,” he grinned.

Marco’s chest was warm the whole way home.

They found their way up to Marco’s bedroom after waving hello to his mother on the living room couch, embroidering a pink flower and watching a scary movie.

The embroidery Jean sort of expected, but the gore? That was refreshing.

“Her current favorite is The Evil Dead, but last month was What Lies Beneath.” Marco chattered as they walked down the dark hallway. He opened the door for Jean and closed it behind them to drown the noise out.

Oh, god. Jean was in Marco’s room. Alone. With the door. Closed.

Oh, goodness. Marco had just closed the door. With Jean in there with him. Alone.

“S-so where do your notes start?”

Jean tried not to seem like he was in a hurry to get his backpack off, but his arms shook with the nerves of knowing this was Marco’s room. He dressed and undressed and slept and studied in here. The bed he set his backpack on was Marco’s bed, the floor he sat on was Marco’s floor.

This whole room was Marco, and right now, in this small, unimportant moment, Jean fit just fine.

“Conjunctions,” Jean muttered, looking over the paper, his other hand rested on the clean carpet.

“Then declensions it is,” Marco said, leafing through his copied notes for the right page. He offered it out to Jean. “Read that over and let me know any questions you have.”

The room was silent save for the muffled noises of people being killed downstairs. Marco managed to ignore it and grab his and Jean’s food while he waited, busying his hands with his phone and his box of fries.

“English is fucked,” Jean concluded, looking up and handing back Marco’s notes. He took his hamburger from the pile and unwrapped it.

Marco chuckled. “While that may be true, did you have any questions?”

Why are you so damn pretty? “Why do nouns decline like that?”

Marco snorted. “To piss off the dirty French, of course.”

Jean mocked laughter. “Right, because fat Americans are a pinnacle of education.”

Marco’s legs outstretched, and he reclined against his bed, shrugging with his eyebrows lifted. “All I’m saying is I don’t see the problem with marrying your cousin.”

That got a laugh from Jean. A real laugh. The kind that screwed up his eyes and made his cheeks pink. He doubled over, face pitching into the side of Marco’s bed, hand clutched to his heart.

Their studying continued like that most of the time. In fact, Marco gave up on trying to teach anything after an hour’s worth of derailed conversation. He gave Jean his notes to take a picture of and copy later. 

He still had his drink, but the rest of Marco’s food was gone, and he nibbled his straw, commiting the small moment to memory: Jean with his messy hair and staticky clothes and fuzzy socks. His lithe fingers poised at all possible angles holding his phone over Marco’s notes.

It was perfect.

Jean was perfect.

Marco was captivated once again by those tawny eyes like sunlight filtered through creme soda. Like glowing chunks of ochre. He couldn’t help smiling when Jean gave his notes back.

Jean grinned, too. “What?”

Marco’s head shook, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t feel shy around Jean, or worried, or scared. “Nothing. Just looking.”

Jean blinked, and Marco’s heart swelled seeing the pink come to his cheeks, flanking those sharp, lovely eyes. “At what?”

Marco’s teeth caught his bottom lip, and he shrugged with a small smile. “Just at you.”

Jean made a noise like a laugh, and looked at his fingers picking at each other in his lap. 

“Was that weird to say?”

Jean chuckled again. “A little.”

Marco’s smile grew. “I’m sorry,” only he didn’t really sound it. 

Jean glanced back at him, at the freckles and the skein he wanted to draw. To kiss. “Don’t worry. I’m not.”

There was a mere foot between them, yet it still didn’t feel close enough. Jean eyed the carpet separating them, his heart sputtering in his chest because there was no way Marco was thinking the same thing he was.

His eyes landed on Marco’s, close enough to touch but far enough that there was no way to play it off as an accident. The space between them was deliberate, and whoever closed it would have to do it deliberately.

Jean wasn’t sure he could be that deliberate, but he wanted to be. If it meant he could be just a little closer to Marco.

He didn’t notice the way he’d latched onto the sound of Marco breathing, until Marco took a soft breath and held it just a moment longer than the others. When Jean looked at him, Marco’s eyes slid open, and in a soft voice he said, “I would like to kiss you, Jean.”

Jean stared at him because there was no way. There was no way Marco could want to kiss him when he had Mina waiting for him over at Sina’s. 

There was no way...and yet Marco was there, leaning in, asking if Jean would say yes.

“Can I kiss you?”

Jean was so stunned he had to blink hard. Why would Marco want to kiss him if they weren’t...if Jean was…

“Yes.”

How could it not be completely right that Marco’s cheeks were pink and he wet his lips with his tongue before leaning closer? How could they not be meant for each other if Marco was deliberate enough to close the distance between them? How could it be that Jean was calm and giddy and in love all at once, and Marco felt the same, if the universe had no plans to keep them that way?

The answer was simple, really.

Jean was skeinless.

He didn’t have patterns on his skin the way other people did, good people did, but Marco still kissed him like it didn’t bother him. Jean fingertips weren’t beautiful with crimson, he wasn’t so filled with love that it showed on his skin. He didn’t have a swirling pattern of white under his eyes.

Marco’s lips were warm and soft and they fit against Jean’s as if they’d been made for each other, but they weren’t. When his head turned to deepen the kiss and a strand of hair caressed Jean’s cheek, Jean didn’t flinch, but brushed it away with his hands as his fingers slid into place in Marco’s hair. When Marco made a soft noise, his breath in Jean’s mouth, Jean didn’t care that the taste of soda was still on Marco’s tongue. 

Jean didn’t care because Marco didn’t care, and kissing him and being kissed by him felt right. 

When Marco moved closer and their lips came apart after he lost his balance, Jean didn’t care. He just pulled Marco closer and let his hands guide Marco’s legs into place over his lap. When Marco giggled and sighed against Jean’s lips, his arms on Jean’s shoulders and his hands tangled in Jean’s already messy hair, Jean didn’t care. He kissed Marco back, and put his hands on Marco’s hips to keep him there.

Touching Marco, being with Marco felt right, and that was so wrong.

All Jean could think of was Mina. What would this do to her, losing her soulmate to someone like Jean? If Jean could love Marco this much without a single thing tethering them together, how much could Mina?

She didn’t deserve that.

Neither did Marco.

Jean’s eyebrows pressed together, though he still kissed Marco selfishly. Could Jean ever love him the way Marco deserved? Even if they were perfect for each other, there had to be some way Marco and Mina were even more perfect for each other. They were made for each other.

Jean wasn’t made for anyone.

He gasped for air, and Marco kissed him harder. Jean’s lips were bruising, and it felt so good and that was so wrong. It was wrong for him to feel so right with Marco when Marco belonged to someone else. It was wrong for Marco to be okay with this.

“Marco, I–” Jean said around kisses, when Marco finally let him up for air. “W-wait I–”

Marco pulled away enough to rest their foreheads together, panting, his hands still knotted in Jean’s hair. “Go ahead,” he whispered.

The weight of him against Jean’s legs was too right, the smell of him was too right, the way he waited for Jean was too right. It wasn’t fair. Why would this happen? How could Jean find someone who fit so well, who wanted him as much as he wanted them, and still not belong? It wasn’t fair.

Marco kissed him again. On the lips. On his cheeks. Across his ears and eyes. “What’s wrong, Jean?”

It was because no one looked out for Jean, so he had to look out for himself. He had to look out for the people he loved even if they couldn’t love him. He had to look out for Mina, and Marco, and he had to look out for any kids they might have together. Jean was skeinless, but he would die before he turned into a monster, too.

He stared at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to look at Marco when he said it, when he finally did the hard thing unlike any of the Kirchsteins before him.

“I’m skeinless!” Jean blurted.

Marco’s lips were still on his cheek when he said it, and there was a long moment during which neither moved. When Marco finally did, he was slow and jerky like he’d just come awake.

“...What?”

His voice was so small. Already he sounded hurt, so Jean knew he’d heard just fine.

Jean steadied his voice, speaking clear and hard as crystal. “I’m skeinless.” He finally said. “I don’t have a soulmark. I’m–I’m not your soulmate.”

Staring at Marco while he said it felt like Jean was turning to ice. It started in his heart and spread all through his chest, through his lungs, to his extremities. It was any wonder Marco didn’t melt him right there being as he was like the sun personified.

Jean swallowed and turned away, his hands falling from their places on Marco’s hips. He felt like he might float up and away when Marco moved and stood and backed away.

“I don’t…” Marco started, arms folded, looking lost. His doe eyes shifted about the room as if he didn’t recognize the place. “I don’t get it.” His gaze was distant when his fingertips touched the new marks on his cheeks. “My skein grew with you…”

Jean shook his head, getting to his own feet. “It probably didn’t, it just seems like it because we hung out last night. I’m sorry.”

Marco’s eyes still saw something that wasn’t there before his gaze fixed on Jean. It cut Jean like a knife to see a wall of tears building behind Marco’s eyelids. “I..” Marco’s voice was small and sad and hurt. “I liked you, though.” His chin wobbled despite himself, and Jean saw Marco had a hidden dimple there, too. “I-I’ve never liked anyone the way I like you.”

If they really were soulmates, then Marco would have known why such a phrase would cut Jean to his core. Each word was a laceration, every breath brought Jean one step closer to snapping.

The world under Jean tilted, and he struggled to keep upright. “Please, don’t say that.”

“No.” Marco’s eyebrows crinkled, and his hand fell to his heart as if it hurt. If he felt the way Jean did, it probably took his breath away. “N-no, I...there’s no way you don’t feel this.” He gestured between them. “M-maybe you just don’t have a skein, but that doesn’t mean we can’t–that we aren’t–”

Jean somehow managed to keep his expression under control. He could deal blows of his own, even without meaning to.

Marco saw how differently Jean handled it, and a small sob squeezed from his throat before he could catch it. 

Jean couldn’t bring himself to say much more than “I’m sorry, Marco.”

Marco’s pretty lips curled over his teeth, and he hummed. He tried to brush the tears from his eyes as casually as possible. He tried to stop crying.

“You know,” he started. “I, uh, I have a lot of homework to do tonight. It was nice to hang out again.” He couldn’t even look at Jean as he said it. “But I...I think I need to call it a night.”

Jean swallowed.

“Let me get my keys,” Marco said, wiping his eyes again and turning for the door. “I’ll drive you home.”

By the time he was out of the bathroom, Marco’s eyes were dry. By the time they made it downstairs, his voice was clear and he’d stopped sniffling. They said goodbye to his mother, and she didn’t seem to notice a thing out of the ordinary.

The car-ride wasn’t as torturous as Jean would have expected, but Marco was nice that way. Unlike Jean, even when Marco was hurting, he had enough couth not to hurt the people he cared about. 

Marco didn’t say a word as they pulled up to the yellow house with no lights on, and neither did Jean.

Jean didn’t say another word the rest of the evening.

PART IV: SMOKE

It wasn’t in Jean’s nature to skip school, but he did the rest of the week. It wasn’t in his nature to do the noble thing either, so it was a time for surprises.

Bailey tried to pry, but gave up after the second day. It wasn’t in his nature to let Jean off so easy, but, again, it was a week of new developments.

On the third day, Friday, the day before the Jaeger house bonfire that Jean was not going to, he was roused from bed by an arsenal of pounding at the front door. Whoever it was wouldn’t take no for an answer, and fingered the doorbell so much they had to be a gamer, or a lesbian.

“I’m coming!” Jean snapped as he stumbled down the stairs. A string of profanities trailed behind.

Jean squinted against the sun-brightened snow, wincing as he stared up into the shadow of Reiner’s face.

They said nothing for a few beats before Reiner took the initiative and pushed his way inside, his giant boots smearing snow and ice and salt on the carpet.

“Uh, hello? Remove your shoes, please!” Jean tried to block him, but it was like standing in front of an oncoming train for all the good it did him. “What are you doing in my house?”

Reiner’s eyes scanned the interior, apparently deaf to Jean’s words. He turned to Jean, eyebrows scrunched. “Why haven’t you come to school?”

Jean made a face. “What’s it to you?”

The scowl deepened. “You said something to Marco. I told you he was a good guy.”

Jean sighed. “That is so not your business.” He tried to usher Reiner from his living room before he broke something. “Now, please leave. I’m a little busy.”

Reiner glared down his nose at Jean. “Fusing to your bed doesn’t count as busy.” His gaze softened just barely. “And it is my business if my biology partner starts crying because I mentioned his new skein.”

Jean made a face, bristling. “You’ve already seen his new skein.”

“I just said that.” Reiner checked something on his phone. “But you haven’t. And you will apologize to Marco at the party tonight.”

Panic shot through Jean’s spine like he’d just been punched from behind, but he played it off as anger. “W-what makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

Reiner took hold of Jean’s shoulder and steered him toward the stairs. “Marco cried to me. You cut deep.” His nose wrinkled. “And you stink.”

Jean sputtered, and tried to pry from Reiner’s iron-like grasp, but all he got was those thick fingers digging into his collarbone. “I’ll keep stinking if I want! I-I didn’t do anything. It was for his own good!”

“You think it’s good to hurt your friends and never speak again? Jean Kirchstein, that is not the way the Americans do things.” Reiner pushed Jean in the bathroom, gesturing to the shower. “In. Now.”

Jean looked into the shower, then at Reiner. “Don’t you get it? My parents split. There’s no way I can be with him and not fuck things up. I’ll never have a skein, and he’ll never know what he’s missing if he’s with me.” Jean touched his chest, hand gripped above his heart the same way Marco’s had before Jean ripped it out. “He can’t be with me.”

Reiner’s arms folded. “You don’t get it either. Marco’s skein hasn’t grown since the one on his arm stopped in middle school. And now it starts after he hangs out with you once?”

“We’d never even met before then!”

Reiner shrugged. “Maybe this soulmate thing isn’t as complicated as people think. “I’ve never met my partners in person, and we all skeined together.”

Jean stared at him. “You’ve skeined?”

Reiner answered by lifting his shirt, an angular pattern criss-crossing over his abdomen. 

Another skeined teen, another person Jean would never be like. He tried to swallow the hot jealousy burbling up in his throat like bile. 

He thought of Marco and how bad he wanted to trace every line of his skin. And how odd it would seem for the two of them, one skeined, one skeinless, to be together.

“And what about me?” Jean’s hand tightened around his heart. “Why do you think I don’t have a skein?”

Reiner appraised him for a long moment, his pale eyes scrutinizing Jean almost shrewdly. “You are pale. Perhaps the marks don’t show on your skin?”

Jean gave him a look that could curdle milk, to which Reiner shrugged again. 

“Does it matter? Marco likes you without it.”

Jean’s head shook. “But will he always like me without it? What if one day he wakes up and doesn’t care anymore? What then?”

Reiner studied him again, then sighed and slapped his massive hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“Jean,” he said. “You’re eighteen.” Reiner pushed Jean toward the shower one more time. “Now, wash yourself. You really do stink.”

Jean still worried himself near to death under the jetstream. His mind swirled around the idea of facing Marco again after what he’d done, and more than once he wished he could slip down the drain with the water.

Having Reiner there like some kind of smother goose helped. Sort of. He made Jean brush his hair, and wear pants that weren’t already discarded on his floor. He even kicked the laundry hamper at Jean with a meaningful grunt. 

It was on the way to the party that Jean remembered he had no idea where Eren’s house was. Sure, he’d looked at the invite, but it wasn’t like he understood how street names worked, and the map on the back could have been drawn by a seven year-old for the good it did.

Reiner drove with confidence, however, and it wasn’t until he killed the engine that Jean realized they had arrived. Well, as close to arrived as was possible with the line of cars parked on either shoulder of the narrow road before Eren’s two-story farmhouse. 

Music and bass blasted somewhere behind the house, the snow-capped trees around the perimeter already aglow with the bonfire in the back.

Jean swallowed the lump in his throat and followed behind Reiner like a lost dog.

“I won’t babysit you,” Reiner said once they made it to the door. “But if I come to school on Monday and Marco says you didn’t talk to him, you’ll be buried so deep in the snow they won’t find you until spring.”

He went inside then, and Jean was left stunned on the porch. 

Jean waited for a long moment. For courage to strike or for lightning, he wasn’t sure, but he already felt hungover passing over the threshold and into the noisy house. 

There was already a mess of red solo cups in the living room, and a line to the bathroom. Jean recognized a few faces from school, but no one he really knew.

Was Marco even coming tonight, or had he subjected himself to his room the way Jean had?

He wandered through the house, finding the first clean cup and pouring a drink for himself. It was watered down, and cheaper than shit, but Jean would be damned if he wasn’t swaying by the fourth refill.

He couldn’t do this. Maybe he should take the initiative and bury himself in the snow to save Reiner the effort.

Jean made his way to the back door and slipped out before he could change his mind.

***

Marco didn’t want to come to the party, but he wanted even less to be stuck at home crying to his mom. Even three days after the fact, Marco’s ears burned remembering the way he’d pushed through the door after taking Jean home. Miriam was still there, still embroidering. She’d changed her viewing to another episode of The Haunting of Hill House.

He didn’t even have to say a word for her to know something was wrong. He was so obvious in everything he did, he couldn’t even hide a rejection from his mother in a dark room. When he’d curled up beside her on the couch, head in her lap, Marco didn’t cry. He thought he was all spent. But the more Miriam ran her fingers through his hair, the more she smoothed his eyebrows with her thumbnail, the worse he felt, until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

Because her touch wasn’t Jean’s, and it didn’t feel like Jean’s. Marco’s skin didn’t warm the way it did when Jean had touched him up in his room. He didn’t feel any better when Miriam kissed his forehead, or when she hugged him, or even when she microwaved a bag of popcorn and they started The Conjuring together. Sitting with his mother, eating his favorite popcorn, watching his favorite movie did nothing to quell the ache of his heart, the pain in his chest.

He’d stopped at Sina’s the next day to speak with his cousin, Mina. She always seemed to know what to say about this kind of stuff.

She didn’t this time, and the smell of old grease had masked the smell of burning hair where Marco rested his weary head against the range. He cried when his mom had to cut it to save it, but not because he was all that obsessed with his hair.

No, Marco cried because his hairline had gone white. Right where Jean had tangled his fingers at the base of his neck and kissed him.

He wished he’d brought a hat, and his ears were red and icy after standing outside for only a few minutes. 

Armin and Connie and Sasha all flanked him, and Christa was on her way with her girlfriend, too. Marco wasn’t alone, even though he kind of wished he was.

“If I see his horrible equestrian face again–no offense, Marco, but you gotta admit,” Connie said into his solo cup of Coke and rum. “I’ll pummel him. I’ll throw him in the fire. I’m gonna bite him.”

Connie did this when he was trying to comfort a person and nothing else was working. Most of the time Marco thought it was funny, but now he was just tired and sad and wanted to curl up in bed and never see the sun again.

“Maybe don’t do anything that will get you in even more trouble if the cops get called, huh?” Armin suggested, always the voice of reason, and the only one of the four of them who looked as uncomfortable as Marco. “I’m not saying it wasn’t a low blow, but why not change the subject?”

Marco couldn’t agree more. “What kind of house party doesn’t serve unspiked soda?”

Armin gave an approving nod. “Now, that’s a conversation I can dive into.”

Marco tried to humor him, but even Armin got awkward after a while, and the cold of the outside was getting to both of them. Armin didn’t do bonfires because of his asthma, and Marco hesitated going back inside. The last time he came to a Bonzapalooza, he’d stepped in vomit and ruined his favorite boots and wasn’t willing to tempt fate again.

Marco dumped his drink and tossed it in a nearby garbage, making his way to the bonfire.

***

Jean wasn’t as drunk as he wished he was standing in front of the fire, letting the heat pulse hot against his face. Between the house and the barn with the lights and rave music blaring, there weren’t many people standing around, and all of them, it seemed, were busy making out.

He wondered if Eren had a snowmobile, how hard it would be to sneak by with it and find the keys and bust out of here. He wondered how long he could avoid Reiner before he was pummeled into the earth where he belonged.

Jean opened his eyes, and the world around him was foggy with tears. From the heat and brightness of the fire, from being drunk. From being a monster.

He sighed, and squatted, hands on his face. His fingers were ice cold against his burning cheeks and eyelids.

“Still up for swiping a skidoo?”

Jean startled enough that he lost his balance, falling on his backside in the snow much to the delight of whoever spoke. He blinked and wiped his eyes, vision still blurred as he squinted up at them. He squinted until the picture cleared, and wished he hadn’t.

Marco stood over him, hands in his pockets, his hair cropped short to reveal a skein of white at the base of his neck that faded to his normal chocolate brown near his crown.

He didn’t smile when Jean looked at him, and he didn’t frown. “I like your hat. Red looks good on you.”

Jean touched the frayed wool and hated it. All at once, he was a kid again and the hat was itchy and hot and didn’t fit right. 

He stood and wiped the snow from his backside, not sure what to do with himself now. Was that Marco’s nice way of telling him to beat it?

“Marco, I–”

Marco interrupted him with a laugh. Not harsh, but not warm. Distant. “If you’re about to apologize, just save it, Jean.”

Jean’s jaw snapped shut, but the alcohol in his system made him chatty. “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

Marco stared into the fire, and all the new patterns on his face were visible. They curled down his neck, around his mouth. They glittered against the firelight.

“And just what did you mean to do?”

That was a tough question to answer solely because Jean didn’t know himself. He didn’t really jump into this with real intent, all he did was talk to Marco. All he wanted was to be close to him.

“I didn’t expect you to like me.”

“Well I did, Jean!” It wasn’t like Marco to snap like that. Even he was shocked by it. He sighed and lowered his voice, one of his hands rubbing his cold neck. “I did.”

“What was I supposed to do, huh? You know the rumors.” Jean shook his head, eyes on his boots and the reflection of fire against the snow. “My parents were soulmates and they didn’t make it.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one with a dead parent–”

“My mom isn’t dead.” Jean interrupted. “She left us.” He paused before daring a look up at Marco’s stunned expression, soaking up the hurt in his eyes. “She left because she didn’t want a kid.” He turned his gaze back to the fire. She didn’t want a kid so much even the love of her life couldn’t change her mind.

Marco was silent for a long time, either unsure what to say or unwilling to say it.

Jean opened his mouth a few times, trying to speak. He gasped, and a small sob fell out. “N-no one’s ever wanted me.” Jean wiped his eyes, fingers trembling. “So I got scared when you did.”

Suddenly, he was small. He was small and young and scared and cold and his stomach hurt so much he wanted to puke. He wanted to scream. Or cry. He wanted to hit something or run into the woods never to be seen again.

Most of all, he wanted Marco to know he didn’t mean to ruin things, and how sorry he was for doing it anyway. He wanted Marco to be happy because that’s what he deserved, but there was no way to say it without turning it into an excuse.

Jean hissed and brought his hand to his face to wipe the tears from his cheeks. He turned away from Marco, facing the woods. 

For a long moment, there was only the thump of the music in the barn and the roar of the fire. Jean’s fingers tangled in his beanie, the wool scratching his face one more time before he ripped it away and threw as far as he could, right into the bonfire. He screamed at the same time, so hard it hurt, and his voice blew out.

“I hate it! I hate it so much!” His hands slapped against his face, nails scratching down his cheeks. “I finally had something good and I fucking pysched my way out of it!” Jean whirled on his heel and stomped up to Marco. “I liked you, okay? I liked you so much it scared me, and when you kissed me I could’ve died and it wouldn’t have even mattered because I could feel how much you liked me back.” He wiped his eyes and nose on his freezing hands. “B-but then I couldn’t stop thinking about you n’ Mina and how much it would hurt her to take you from her because I know what it’s like and I just–I couldn’t–”

“Woah, woah, Jean.” Marco brought up his hands to stop him, to make him pause for even a second. “What? Why would Mina care who I’m dating?”

Jean glared up at him. “Don’t be stupid, Marco, I know you two are soulmates.”

Marco stared down at him, eyes wide, both his hands on Jean’s shoulders. Slowly, a bit like watching a sunrise, a wobbly, bewildered grin curled the corners of his mouth. 

“Jean…” Marco started, his voice shaking with ill-concealed laughter. “M-Mina is my cousin.”

Jean stared.

The facade cracked further, Marco barely able to keep his cool. “I...when I said I didn’t mind marrying my cousin, I was joking.”

Jean sucked in a breath, gumption returning, but there was no use trying when his voice was weak and croaky. 

Marco laughed. “No offense, but you’re, like, kinda stupid.”

Jean’s chin wobbled, and he didn’t fight when Marco’s hands slid from his shoulder to his neck, to his cheeks. They were so cold and such a relief after the heat of the night so far. “I know.”

He sniffled, and croaked, and gasped, coughing when his throat ached, and couldn’t fight when Marco pulled him in for a hug. He allowed himself to be coddled, until he wanted it. Until the ache just to be closer to Marco had returned.

“I’m s-sorry,” Jean croaked, face buried against Marco’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, me too,” Marco crooned. His fingers brushed through Jean’s hair and he patted his back. “Also I’d keep away from Connie for a few days if you want to keep all your fingers.”

Jean straightened. “What?”

“Nothing.”

They stood like that for a long moment, until the night and the alcohol caught up to Jean again, and his eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

“Marco…” Jean slurred. “Do you wanna lift a skidoo with me?”

Marco’s shoulders trembled with laughter. “I thought you’d never ask.”

In the end, Marco did most of the lifting. And the driving. But they went to Jean’s house and he turned on his electric blanket while Marco took off his snow clothes and set them out to dry in the laundry room. He floundered around in the bathroom after setting out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for Marco to borrow. 

After a moment, a knock came at the door. “Isn’t it sort of standard procedure that the person changing clothes is in the bathroom?”

“We do things different in Canada.” Jean tugged open the door, grateful that Marco had gone and changed before commenting. 

He looked good in Jean’s clothes–at the least the ones that fit. 

Marco looked like he wanted to say something, his mouth opening once before he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I saw a picture in your bedroom. Is that your mom?”

Jean’s teeth clicked together once. “Yes.”

Marco nodded, and stepped to the side to follow Jean back to his space, to his bed.

“She’s pretty.”

Jean wasn’t sure what to say about that. The more he thought about it, the more he was reminded that he knew next to nothing about his mom.

They sat on the bed, a deliberate space between them, Jean with his knees to his chest.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but…” Marco’s fingers drug back and forth across the sherpa of Jean’s blanket. “When did she leave?”

Jean’s eyes went up to his picture. “I was six when they split. Last saw her when I was nine.”

Marco didn’t say anything for a moment. “My dad died when I was ten.”

Jean waited for more, but wouldn’t ask.

Marco swallowed. “He was t-boned after a truck slid through the intersection.”

Again, Jean said nothing, but let Marco talk if he wanted. When he didn’t, all Jean said was, “I’m sorry.”

Marco laughed, but it wasn’t happy. If Jean had to guess, Marco was used to laughing through hard things. “I’m sorry, too. He woulda liked you.”

Jean rested his head against the wall, tired, but wanting to listen. “Tell me about him?”

Marco smiled. “Oh, where to start…”

Jean listened as Marco told him about his dad, and about his mom, and about growing up. He listened when Marco brought up pets, and friends, and even his first kiss.

He didn’t realize the distance between them was closing again until he flinched in his sleep, and Marco’s fingers brushed through his hair. 

“I think it’s time to sleep,” Marco crooned. 

“I think it’s time to kiss,” Jean replied.

Marco chuckled. “So long as you don’t wig out on me again.”

Jean made a noise like a laugh, too tired and too drunk to be embarrassed. 

“I’ll be here in the morning, if you’re worried.” 

Jean sighed. He wasn’t, but the promise was nice anyway. 

He couldn’t be sure what time it was when he woke the next day, but his room was warm and bright and so, so cozy. Jean moved to stretch his arms, his face burying deeper against Marco’s chest.

Yeah...Marco was in his room. Sleeping with him.

“Hey, Jean?”

Jean hummed.

“When was this picture taken?”

Jean grumbled, some of it in English, some in French. He lifted his head, and squinted at the picture in Marco’s hand. It was the picture from Niagara Falls.

He thought, his head falling back against Marco, listening to the sounds of his insides gurgling and grumbling. “Uhh...It was in June, I remember that. I wanna say eight or nine years ago. Why?”

A smile played at the corner of Marco’s lips. “Because…” he pointed to the right corner of the picture, at the wrist-watched hand and the dark ponytail with the scrunchie. The glitter of his skein shimmered in the early morning light. “I had a watch just like that when I was a kid.”


End file.
